


Respite From The Heat

by EvanHart



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Comedy, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, I don't know what to say this is literally based on The Mummy (1999), I just felt this needed to be out there and shared, Kinda, M/M, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Slow Burn, although they do kiss in like chapter 2, but technically it takes place in the canon universe, like they fall in love pretty quickly but they don't get together until the end, the mummy - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:28:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25294705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvanHart/pseuds/EvanHart
Summary: “No, we arenotleaving,” Jaskier repeats, scrambling to remove his papers from his bag before Geralt gives up on packing and leaves all his things there anyway. “We woke him up, and we must try to stop him. Besides, it has the makings of my greatest composition yet!”Geralt spins on his heel to look Jaskier in the eye, practically spitting fire. “’We’?” he echoes incredulously, arms tense at his sides. “Whatwe?Ididn’t read that book.Itold you not to play around with that thing!”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 25
Kudos: 96





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> *DISCLAIMER*
> 
> Before we get started, I’d just like to say that I own none of these characters or the work that this AU is based on. I do not claim any ownership over them or the books, TV series, movies, or games; nor the world of The Mummy or The Witcher. This is purely creative and not for profit.
> 
> Okay, with that out of the way - let’s begin!

The sun glints off the tack of the horses coming ever closer, their hooves kicking up dust clouds as they approach. Dol Blathanna isn’t anywhere near what could feasibly be called a desert, but it’s dry and bare enough that Geralt is tempted to do just that. The heat is sweltering and the rocks to his back do little to provide any shelter.

“I knew I should have said no,” Geralt berates himself, staring at the hordes of riders growing larger by the second. From this far away, he can only make out a few details, but it’s enough to know that Nilfgaard still hasn’t changed their hideous armour design.

“It was going to be a lousy day either way, my friend,” Mousesack reminds him, beads of sweat lining his brow. “Nilfgaard doesn’t do well with things that are different. That includes you.”

Geralt hums, not taking his eyes off of the approaching horses.

To his other side, Istredd fidgets. “Personally, I would like to surrender,” he says, voice barely concealing the nerves he’s feeling. “Why can we not just surrender?”

It’s a near thing, but Geralt just about manages not to roll his eyes.

“Let’s just run away,” Istredd continues, and Mousesack’s resulting sigh is low, but still audible. “Right now. While we can still make it.”

“Shut up and give me your crossbow,” Geralt snaps, fed up with the man’s near-constant whining after the past few days. “You’ll never use it anyway.” He reaches out to grab the proffered weapon, the hand holding it trembling along with the owner’s voice. As much as Geralt likes to insist that Witchers don’t experience emotions, irritation is one that he’s all too familiar with.

Mousesack leans forward, one hand on the rock in front of him. “You didn’t have to come,” he reminds the mage. “You could portal yourself out of here at any given moment. You’re not contributing much whatever you do.”

“I can’t,” Istredd retorts, shuffling in his steps. Geralt doesn’t bother glancing over, too busy checking the tension of the string and loading a bolt into place. “This whole place is _wrong_. My chaos isn’t connecting properly.” Istredd looks around, then back at the Nilfgaardians advancing quickly. “Let’s play dead, huh? Nobody ever does that anymore.”

“Go find me a stick,” Geralt orders, fed up with everything that’s happened to lead him here, and more so with the constant complaints.

“Now?” Istredd blinks. “Here? What for?”

Geralt whirls around, face-to-face with the other man. Istredd may be an inch taller, but Geralt is larger, and his bulk makes him appear to be towering more than he is. “So I can tie it to your back,” he snarls, watching Istredd take a hasty step back. “Since you appear to have forgotten your spine.”

Mousesack doesn’t even bother hiding his snort.

The riders are closer, now, only a half-mile away by Geralt’s estimation. He turns back to face them, lifting the crossbow up and readying his finger on the trigger. All along the line they’ve set up just in front of the collection of Elven ruins, the men from Mousesack’s entourage have their own bows and crossbows ready.

“You never did tell me why you’re all the way out here,” the druid remarks casually once he’s finished laughing, and Geralt keeps his face carefully impassive.

“Not exactly popular anywhere else,” he grunts.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Mousesack grin. “I doubt you’re that popular at the edge of the world, either,” comes the quip. He lowers his voice a few notches. “Meddled in some human affairs? Did you kill someone?”

Geralt tilts his head pointedly at Istredd, who’s pacing and wringing his hands while trying to look brave. “I’m considering it.”

Mousesack chuckles, and there are a few seconds of tense silence broken by galloping as they watch the incoming riders, now only a few hundred yards away, swords drawn and what Geralt can tell are their own projectile weapons aimed at them. As far as he can see, and his Witcher mutations have sharpened his vision enough to see farther, every soldier is wielding a weapon. No mages, then, which is good – although their own mage seems momentarily incompetent and even Mousesack’s power is being mostly blocked somehow.

“You never told me why you’re here,” Geralt remembers suddenly, recalling how Mousesack had dragged him out of the tavern without a real explanation for his motives. 

Beside him, the man shifts, almost uncomfortably. “We’re here for Dol Blathanna,” the druid says simply, then hastens to continue before Geralt can interrupt. “Yes, I know, I told you that already. If we survive this, I’ll explain everything. We’ve survived worse odds.”

Geralt scoffs. “Barely.”

“Barely is still survival, my friend,” Mousesack points out, and Geralt hums noncommittedly. “As it is, you haven’t given me a real answer for your own presence here.”

The sound of horses is practically deafening, and the noise rings in Geralt’s sensitive ears. Around them, there’s the hiss and stretch of bowstrings being pulled taut, the soft rustle of crossbows being lifted and swords drawn. “I was just looking for a good time,” Geralt jokes, and the weight of Mousesack’s disbelieving gaze is drawn away quickly as the Nilfgaard soldiers come within two hundred yards, the dust clouds rising higher from under the horses’ hooves.

“Steady,” Mousesack says, voice loud, and the men in their line shuffle nervously but follow the command. The horses are closing in, and Geralt has to focus on his target instead of letting the sickly smell of fear permeate his thoughts and dull his other senses. “Steady!”

One of the Nilfgaardians – their commander, if the gold inlay on his armour is any indication – gives a shout, the rest of his troops raising their weapons and echoing the sound, their voices harsh and full of aggression and the excitement only an incoming battle can bring. Geralt narrows his eyes, zeroing in on the commander, blocking out everything but the man’s approaching horse and Mousesack’s orders beside him.

To his left, Istredd lets out one last scared whimper and bolts, back towards the ruins.

“ _Loose!_ ” 

Geralt’s bolt is flying off full seconds before any of the others, sticking true to its course as it hurtles through the air. Another bolt is already loaded and aimed by the time the commander drops, hitting the dry ground with a thud and sending his horse careening off to the side. The rest of the troops are still advancing, and Geralt manages to get another three shots off before the first of the men in his line falls, the Nilfgaard soldiers utilising their own bows to take out as many as they can before it becomes a direct assault. He reloads the crossbow as quickly as he can, aiming for more of the soldiers – he doesn’t want to hurt the horses, Yennefer has teased him about his love for the four-legged creatures enough that his affection for them has finally come to be accepted in his mind – and six more men lie dead on the ground before he’s forced to drop the crossbow and reach for his sword.

It’s tempting to draw both, he knows better than most that men can be monsters just as well as any creature, but his silver blade hasn’t been treated recently and he knows that none of the soldiers advancing will be anywhere near good enough to best him in combat regardless. Instead, he draws his steel sword and braces his feet on the rocky ground, bending his knees slightly in anticipation of the first impact as the riders draw closer, well within fifty feet, and then they’re upon them.

The horses plough through the line, the soldiers still taking aim with their own bows as they go, and soon the air is thick and heavy with the smell of blood, the coppery taste of it burning on Geralt’s tongue as he methodically slashes his blade, taking down any of the soldiers that come near enough for him to do so. 

Somewhere to his right, he can see flashes of Mousesack’s worn green tunic as the druid fights as best he can, drawing on what little power he’s managing to siphon from the earth to aid in his efforts. He can vaguely hear Istredd’s panicked cry, and despite himself, turns to see what has happened, taking off towards the ruins at the same time as the rest of the men, Mousesack shouting for them to retreat.

The mage is lying on his back on the dirt just inside the first stone gate, eyes wide and hands outstretched as if to try one last desperate attempt to regain his connection to chaos as Nilfgaardian soldiers advance. Geralt curses, speeding up and reaching the man just in time to cut down the soldier, the body landing heavily on the packed earth, blood spraying out and splattering across Geralt’s armour and Istredd’s face.

“Fuck,” Geralt breathes heavily, turning back to face the rest of the troops and barely bothering to pay attention to the sound of the mage scrambling to his feet, taking off again.

“Geralt!” he hears Mousesack cry, and he whips his head to the side to look for the druid, standing with stained clothing and a gash on his forehead, hands shaking as they maintain a passable bridge out of summoned stone over a long-dried up riverbed. His hired men are making their way across, the ones that have survived, weary and scared and far fewer in number than when they had set out.

The last of his men rush over the makeshift path, and Geralt takes a step forward only to be met by another soldier, his path cut off by the bulk of the Nilfgaardians. “ _Fuck_ ,” he repeats, sidestepping the horse’s legs. He cuts the man down swiftly, looking for Mousesack again. “Go!” he shouts, and sees the druid’s face harden before he nods and lets his hands fall, risking one last look before turning to lead his men to safety.

He doesn’t like his only other option, but he’s also been alive long enough to not feel too much shame in retreating. Gritting his teeth, he turns and runs like hell, keeping his grip on his sword loose enough to still move as he makes towards the ruins, hurdling a stone column as he ducks under the second stone gate.

Up ahead, he sees Istredd dart inside the remnants of the old temple, eyes panicked as he looks back over the uneven ground and grapples with the door.

“Hey!” Geralt yells, heart beating slightly faster than its normal slow pace as he runs, brow furrowed at the mage up ahead. “Hold the door!”

Eyes widening, Istredd pushes harder.

“Don’t you dare,” Geralt snarls, already knowing that his words will have no effect. Mages, they’re all the same – though Yennefer and Triss would kill him for thinking that – and Istredd is just like every other. Behind him, a myriad of hooves clatters on the remnants of stones in the ruins, a quick tally coming up at five riders coming after him.

The door swings shut right before Geralt reaches it, Istredd’s terrified but complacent face the last thing Geralt sees of him before the stone thuds against the frame. His shoulder protests as he slams against it once, twice – but it’s to no avail. Steeling himself, he turns back to where the five horsemen are advancing, all with crossbows loaded and aimed at his chest.

There’s nothing he can do but turn and bolt off around the rocks, running for his life, weaving through the ruins. The Nilfgaardians are right behind him getting closer and closer, he can hear the pounding of their horses’ hooves getting louder as he sprints around the corner, heart thudding in his chest as he comes face to face with a solid wall of stone.

Geralt skids to a halt. Taking a deep breath, he finally spins around and faces his attackers. The five horses come to a stop in front of him, their riders already raising their crossbows to finish him off, their black armour somehow hazy in the bright midday sun.

It’s ironic, Geralt has to think, standing there with his back against a wall and sword in hand, about to die as all Witchers eventually do. He’s insisted he never gets involved with human affairs, never meddles, but he’s about to meet his end in the midst of a human squabble. It was never supposed to be this way, he was supposed to go fighting some fucking monster that caught him out, or slowed. Destiny has a funny way of screwing up one’s expectations.

Looking his executioners in the eye, he grips his sword and readies for death.

It never comes.

The horses go mad, all five of them rearing up almost simultaneously, their eyes wide and frightened as they go. Two of the riders are thrown to the ground and their steeds take off immediately, all of them screeching and bellowing in fear as they buck and take off through the ruins, the thrown riders hastily following with the same fear etched on their faces.

Geralt stands there, stunned, the sudden quiet of the space throwing him for a second until his medallion starts to vibrate against his chest violently, practically humming as he reaches a hand up to grip it.

Then he feels it – the twistedness, the chaos, the _wrongness_ of where he is, radiating against his back. It’s unfamiliar, and that should scare him, but he was ready to face his death mere seconds ago and he’s been taught all his life to repress his fear. Setting his jaw, one hand still holding his medallion, he adjusts his grip on his sword and turns around – the stone wall staring back at him, a carving of an elven face at its centre

The ground below his feet starts to shift, and Geralt abruptly realises that he needs to leave – now. He backs away, keeping his eyes trained on the transforming dirt, and it almost looks as if huge snakes are writhing beneath it, forming lines and shapes that connect and intersperse with one another.

Geralt is not an idiot, contrary to what certain sorceresses like to tell him, and the second the ground shifts into a vaguely-humanoid face he swallows his pride and runs, taking off back through the ruins and in the direction of Posada, wanting nothing more than to leave Dol Blathanna forever. He’d not normally abandon a place with an unknown threat, but the sense of wrongness has permeated his very being and he can think of nothing but getting rid of it, sluicing it like water from his skin.

He swears he’ll never set foot in the Valley of Flowers again.


	2. Chapter 2

In none of his varied plans and hopes and intricately thought-out daydreams, did Jaskier’s academic career look anything like _this_.

Part of him is unsurprised at the result – there aren’t many who have known him who would deny that he fits in, his brightly-coloured clothes and penchant for shiny trinkets melding with his musical ability and sharp wits to create the picture-perfect recent Oxenfurt alumnus.

Well, maybe not picture perfect.

He’s still not entirely sure why Borch took him on to manage his library, he’s certainly not experienced at it and while he enjoys learning and stories a bit more than the next man, there’s not much else to recommend him. The old man, however, is kind, and it’s not a huge chore to work during the day and perform in the evening, saving up enough money to pay off his debts before he can take to the road for his own adventures as he’d always wanted to. He’s been on the road enough to know that he loves it, but being disowned tends to pave the way for financial troubles. After Oxenfurt, Novigrad is relatively quiet, but the pay is good and he’s not going to stay forever.

The library isn’t awful either. It’s huge, and not exceedingly well organised, but far more comprehensive than anywhere Jaskier’s ever come across. More often than not, he finds himself shirking his duties to curl up in the corner with a particularly fascinating tome – the words coming to life under his gaze and spinning tales that are just _begging_ to be put to song. It is, in his eternally humble opinion (yes, humble, as much as Shani digresses), the best spot to search for inspiration while stuck in one place.

His everyday duties aren’t all that much, to be fair – Borch is always satisfied even if all he’s done is dust a bit and redistribute a handful of books. To outsiders, it may look as if he does nothing at all – the stacks are somehow even _less_ organised than before – but Jaskier has never been one for sticking to the rules and he knows the place like the back of his hand. The books _are_ organised, he always argues whenever someone rudely points out his apparent lack of system, they’re just not organised in a very specific manner. There are sections divided by colour, by subject, by size, and, notably, one section dedicated to musty old religious texts he had taken one look at and disparaged of. The case remains that while others might not like his methods, they suit him and Borch just fine.

Even so, he will occasionally admit that _maybe_ , just maybe, having a lettered system would be easier.

Right now is one of those times.

The day had been progressing much in the same manner as usual: arriving fashionably late (not that anyone other than Téa or Véa would be around to notice), wandering through the seemingly endless maze of corridors until he gets to the library, and finding a new text to waste the morning reading. Within hours, however, the usual calm and quiet of the space had been disrupted by one of the few servants that scampers through from time to time, bringing with them a cart piled high with books.

“Master Borch has acquired new editions,” the girl had said softly, and he was glad that she, at least, was respecting the general rule of keeping quiet in libraries. “He wants them to be listed and shelved with the others.”

An easy enough task. Jaskier nodded readily, and the girl retreated back out of the room.

Now, though, three hours later and with the final book a conundrum in his hands, he’s starting to regret his usual organised chaos. 

It’s a… a _strange_ book, to say the least, and saying that his curiosity is piqued would be an understatement. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knows that this passing fancy will fade away just as quickly as all his other fleeting ones, but for now, the mystery is enough to sustain his interest.

The writing inside the book’s worn leather binding is illegible, some kind of scrawl with dozens of intricate loops that Jaskier can’t make out. He can’t put it with any other translations, since he hasn’t the faintest idea what language it is, and it’s far too interesting to place with any of the staler and less intriguing volumes. On the front, he notices, there’s a symbol that vaguely resembles a circle with a line running through it, and figures that that’s enough to be going on. It’s not a book he’s going to easily forget, and placing it with the other works on runes seems like the best option.

Once he’s pushed a ladder up against the right bookcase and climbed to the top, the next problem rears its head.

Jaskier sighs, eyes dropping to the book in his one arm and then back to the shelf, quickly scanning over the bound covers to see if he can find even the smallest space to squeeze this one into. It’s in vain, he realises quickly, but a glance backwards tells him the other bookcase has more than enough room to fit it in. The issue with that is that his ladder is leant on the first, and the prospect of climbing down the wooden rungs only to shift the ladder a whole two feet to climb back up makes him sigh again. He’s already had far more movement involved in his work this morning than usual.

He eyes the other shelf. It’s not a huge distance away, only a couple yards at most, and he’s failed more spectacularly at other endeavours throughout his life. If he leans out just far enough, he should be able to make it.

“I’m going to regret this, aren’t I,” he mutters to himself, ruefully thinking about giving up and locating his lute in lieu of finishing the task that, really, is fairly simple, he’s just generally too lazy to do it. The thing is – he realises it with a clench in his gut that he’s pretty sure is a niggling feeling of guilt – Borch rarely asks him to do much, if anything. Surely he can put aside whatever levels of ineptitude he has when it comes to library management and at least succeed in putting a book away.

Glancing down, the floor suddenly looks a lot farther than he had anticipated. It’s not more than any of the trees he grew up climbing, but there are no branches to break his fall nor soft grass and moss to land in, only cold, hard stone. Blinking once, he steels his nerve and reaches out gingerly – keeping his other hand firmly wrapped around the top rung of the ladder. It’s a little too far away, still, so he bites his lip and stretches, holding the rung only by his fingertips that are calloused enough from years of rigorous lute-playing to maintain their slight grip.

He’s almost got it, the tip of the book’s leather binding brushing the edge of one of the ones on the shelf – when the ladder pulls away from the first bookcase. Unthinking, Jaskier yelps in surprise, the book flying from his flailing arm to land atop the others, reasonably close to where he had been trying to reach. There’s a quick second where he feels immensely satisfied with himself for getting it in place, until the ladder wobbles and the gravity of the situation sinks in.

The legs of the ladder remain firmly on the ground – thankfully, but his flailing has moved the godsdamned thing away from the bookcase and into a precarious balance in the middle of the aisle, both of his hands wrapped white-knuckled around the top rung. Jaskier holds his breath, not daring to move a muscle, as the ladder teeters for a long moment that seems to stretch on forever – until he shifts just slightly and the balance breaks, sending both him and the ladder careening towards the first bookcase.

For a brief minute, silence reigns again, and Jaskier lets out a sigh of relief.

Too soon, Shani would have admonished, the words echoing in his head as his feeling of relaxation dissipates along with whatever support the bookshelf had been offering, a loud creak of old wood shifting rising into the quiet of the room before the whole thing topples over, crashing into the next case, and the next, and the next – a domino-effect kicking in and vaguely registering in Jaskier’s head as he too falls without anything to hold the ladder up, landing in a heap on top of the pile of wood and books. 

The rest of the bookshelves are still going – still falling around the length of the room, who designed the place anyway – and their crashes ring in Jaskier’s ears as he helplessly watches the scores of books and papers get jostled from their resting spots, flying from the shelves and adding to the chaos that is no longer anywhere near organised, even in the remote sense of the word that he himself likes to use.

He can’t ignore the situation, not really, but he squeezes his eyes shut to try and block out the worst of it as the remaining bookcases fall on the other side of the library. He can hear them as they go, toppling over in the same of their neighbours. And alright, yes, Jaskier is a bard – admittedly, a very loose term for him at the moment, working in a library – and he likes noise, but this is practically deafening, and worse, it spells catastrophe for him and his prospects. He’s starting to plan out means to escape Novigrad undetected when the library quiets down, finally settling with a loud thud that echoes throughout the space.

Jaskier waits a beat, listens as the library returns to its usual silence, then finally cracks one eye open to assess the damage. He looks left, then to the right, and finally opens both eyes to gaze upon what is likely to be the largest mess of books and wood this side of the Blue Mountains, papers scattered everywhere, some pages falling out of their bindings, and wood splintered and cracked. 

The calm is shattered quickly by the sound of the doors being thrown open behind him, a loud gasp ringing out. Wincing, Jaskier turns, coming face to face with Borch, flanked by both Téa and Véa on either side.

“Look at this!” Borch exclaims, face drawn in abject horror as he surveys the room, eyes quickly catching onto Jaskier, who shifts uncomfortably. “I didn’t hire you to make my library more of a mess than it had already become!” The old man closes his eyes, shaking his head and lifting a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Gods above, boy. Do I even want to know how this came about?”

Jaskier looks down at the books near his feet, not wanting to see the disappointment in the old man’s eyes. He leans down to gather as much as he can, knowing that despite his few cares for what people truly think of him at any given time, his employer’s opinion is one he does rate. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, feeling suitably chastised despite not having been given a true tongue-lashing. “It was an accident.”

Téa or Véa – he’s not sure which – makes and unbelieving noise.

“When Aedirn fell into bankruptcy, _that_ was an accident. This is an unmitigated catastrophe,” Borch points out, and alright, yeah, Jaskier can give him that. He’s always been good at overstepping his boundaries and reaching too far – quite literally, in this case. “I like you, Julian, I really do, and I will be the first to say that your methods, while unorthodox, have been quite useful.” The man lowers his hand from his face, and while his expression is still pained, there’s a tiny spark of amusement in his eyes.

Jaskier feels slightly better at the sight of it, and stands straight, a pile of books in his arms. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

“I know, I know,” Borch sighs. “It’s alright. Well, not entirely, since I’m going to have to put an order in for an entirely new set of bookcases to be commissioned.” He looks around the room, appearing to size up the damage. “But I suppose the old ones were getting a little worse for wear. Perhaps it’s time for a change.”

Téa – and it’s definitely her this time, because Jaskier catches her at it – scoffs to herself. 

“See what you can salvage from this mess, Julian,” Borch instructs, not unkindly. “We’ll have to see about rebinding some of the tomes. I know you can speak Elder, so put that to good use and sort everything into its rightful place.” He pauses, looking around the room, and sighs again. “I suppose we’ll just have to work around it. I assume you don’t mind doing this for your hours?”

“Not at all,” Jaskier hastens to reply, and damn it, he’s not used to feeling guilty, but Borch is just always so infuriatingly nice to him. Even now, even when he’s just gone and destroyed the man’s library, possibly even damaged countless priceless additions.

Borch nods, seemingly satisfied, and turns to leave, Téa and Véa trailing in his wake as usual. Soon enough, the library is devoid of anyone but him again, and Jaskier turns back to survey the full extent of the damage. 

The books in his arms seem to grow heavier at the sight of the carnage. It’s bad – but he supposes it could be worse. Not much worse, mind, he’s pretty sure the only way any of this could be worse is if everything was lit on fire. At the very least, he thought he’d be sacked, or quite possibly run out of town. It wouldn’t be the first time, and although he’d be the first to admit he’s starting to get the itch to leave Novigrad, his debts aren’t quite paid off fully yet (that one major gambling loss notwithstanding), and he’s actually pretty comfortable. He’s got a job that – usually – is exceedingly easy, free rein to perform at any tavern or inn takes his fancy, and a warm place to sleep. Other than at Oxenfurt, it’s the best he’s had since he left home.

A noise startles him out of his musings, and he looks to find the source. It hadn’t sounded like papers shifting or wood cracking, no, it was more drawn out and slightly muffled. The doors at the other end of the library are open, leading into the large, dark room where Borch keeps his strange and precious artefacts. It’s part of the library, technically, but not Jaskier’s domain. There aren’t any windows and he’s only gone in to poke around and sate his curiosity once or twice.

Something moves inside the darkness of the room, and Jaskier swallows, carefully setting down the stack of books in his arms. “Hello?” he calls out, years of vocal training keeping his voice even, despite the pounding of his heart. He’d been convinced he was alone all morning – there is only one other door into that room and no one ever uses it, save for Borch. It’s not locked, but the library is quiet, and he would have heard someone go in – unless they entered during all the chaos.

No one answers, and the silence is eerie, now. A few seconds pass while he stands still, listening, and then the sound is back. It sounds almost like feet, slowly shuffling across the floor, like someone trying to stay as quiet as possible as they move around.

“Borch?” Jaskier tries again, hoping against all odds that it’s just the old man going to check on his other possessions. “Téa? Véa?”

Nothing.

Frowning, Jaskier steels his nerves and makes his way across the library, his path impeded by the books and broken shelves scattered over the ground. He tries to be as quiet as possible, footfalls soft and calculated, but a pile of papers slip under one of his feet and sweeps across the floor. He pauses, holding his breath, but the sound doesn’t repeat itself.

_It’s probably just a rat_ , he tells himself as he reaches the door, only the nearest parts illuminated by the light from the library. There are some flickering torches on the far wall, but nowhere near enough to cast light around the whole room, and they’re too high to do much else than draw the eye. Some of the light reflects onto gold and gleaming stone, flashing brightly in the darkness for a second until it fades away without revealing much.

Jaskier has been in here before, and he knows an approximate path through to the centre – where Borch’s collection of old sarcophagi are. There are even a few corpses there, he knows, thousands of years old, from when the elves were still numerous enough to control the continent, humanity barely in the beginning stages of spreading.

He’s not superstitious, never has been, but the sound comes again from the direction of the sarcophagi and Jaskier forces himself to take a deep breath, reaching for one of the torches next to the door before daring to venture further. He’s had a stressful day already, far more than he had been anticipating, and the last thing he wants is for another situation to arise. Especially here, in Borch’s manor, where he’s wreaked enough havoc for the rest of the year.

_Just a rat, just a rat_ , he keeps reminding himself, the mantra resounding with naïve hope as he ventures further into the room, the torch in his hand illuminating large statues as he walks past – one with pointed ears, another with horns like a devil’s. They seem to look down at him as he continues onwards, hating himself for even moving forward despite his better instincts. He’s a storyteller, he knows what happens when someone foolishly goes off into a suspect situation, but there’s still a significant amount of lingering guilt over the library that he feels honour-bound to do anything Borch might need for the foreseeable future. And, well, if that includes hunting down something that may or may not be a mere rodent, he’ll do it. _Just a rat_.

He makes it to the sarcophagi, a row of about ten stretching out in front of him. _Just a rat_. He advances slowly, eyes trailing over the first two as he goes, vaguely remembering what Borch had told him about the value of some of the artefacts in this room. With his luck, he’s going to come face to face with a thief trying to lift some of the goods, if not something worse.

At the fourth sarcophagus, Jaskier freezes, breath catching in his throat as he stares at the opened lid. He swallows hard, eyes darting around to see if there’s anyone nearby who could be responsible for opening it, but finds no one. He doesn’t dare to close his eyes, but the feeling of guilt has morphed into a sickening dread, and his heart is thundering so loudly in his chest he doubts he’d even be able to hear anything else.

_Oh gods_ , he thinks, his mind resolved to do the one thing he really doesn’t want to do, moving forward slowly, holding the torch in front of him with the same grip as if he were brandishing a weapon. Gulping down a deep breath, he pauses for a moment, then leans to peer over the stone rim, craning his neck to see what’s inside, when – 

Something hurtles upwards, grey mottled skin and clammy bones whipping past the edge as a sharp screech echoes through the hall, the torch spluttering slightly with the sound and falling out of Jaskier’s grip.

The scream that comes out of him is a sound he’ll never, ever admit to having made, tearing its way up and out of his mouth as he jumps back in shock.

He’s breathing heavily as the corpse – for that’s what it is – gets leant against the side of the sarcophagus, a woman’s gleeful laughter filling the room with mirth. Jaskier narrows his eyes. He knows that laugh, knows who it belongs to, and he is going to make her life a living hell if it’s the last thing he’ll do.

“You… _you_ …!” his breathing is easier now, but still not back to normal, and it’s indicative of how shaken he had been that he can’t immediately come up with a scathing insult. As it is, he resorts to making angry noises as he backs up and deposits the torch in a nearby brazier, the yellow light casting shadows everywhere but managing to illuminate Renfri as she sits up inside the sarcophagus, hair a mess, arm wrapped around the corpse, and still laughing her arse off at Jaskier’s expense.

“Bitch? Harlot? Rat bastard?” she suggests, leaning on the rim. “ _Please_ call me something original. I know you have it in you, go on.”

Jaskier glares at her as she crawls out of the sarcophagus, leaving the corpse propped up against the side. “Lecherous, sodden-witted deformity,” he mutters as he wrings his hands out to try and stop the tremors, rushing to the side to lay the corpse back down, grimacing as he touches it. “Have you no respect for the dead?”

Renfri grins at him. “Haven’t heard that one before,” she notes, leaning forward. “And hey, you don’t either, if that time we got drunk in a graveyard is any indication.” She sighs wistfully after pointing it out, the same smug grin still stretched across her features and taking away from the effect. “Besides, if I’m totally honest, right now I only wish to join them.”

“Well, I wish you’d do it sooner rather than later,” Jaskier snaps, aiming a punch at Renfri’s chest and trying to hide the wince as his knuckles meet the hard leather of her armour. “Before you ruin all of my prospects the way you’ve ruined yours.”

“Harsh,” Renfri whistles, pushing up on the rim to sit on it instead, her legs still resting next to the corpse that Jaskier is trying desperately not to think about. “But don’t worry, my dear, sweet, precious Jask –” she ignores the glare he immediately levels at her, pushing past any retorts appearing on his lips, “– I’ll have you know that at this moment my career is on a high note.”

“High note?” Jaskier repeats incredulously, shaking his head and letting out a snort. “For the past year and a half, you’ve been scrounging around Novigrad, working as a mercenary and selling paltry junk to the merchants. And what do you have to show for it? Nothing!”

Renfri shoots him a look, and Jaskier rolls his eyes, pretending not to watch as she starts to root around in her satchel. Truth to be told, he’s still not entirely clear on what Renfri does, but it’s enough for her to buy him rounds when they’re at a tavern and that’s enough for him. The fact that despite making fun of his music she really does offer sound advice doesn’t hurt either – and, well, she is rather good with a sword. Far better than anyone else he’s ever met – though Téa and Véa might take offence to that.

“Oh, yes, I do!” she shoots back, pulling her hand out of her satchel and thrusting it in his face. “I have something right here!”

“Not another worthless trinket, Renfri, please,” Jaskier disparages, ducking to avoid being hit in the nose as she continues to wave her arm about. “If I have to look at one more shitty knock-off piece of junk with fake Elder inscriptions, I’ll…” he trails off, eyes finally catching onto the object in Renfri’s hand, a small, ancient-looking box, shaped in a hexagon with interlocking panels on top. The words around the edge, however, are what catches his eye, and he stops talking to stare at it. “Where did you get this?”

His friend flashes a mischievous smile, clearly self-satisfied and amused, but Jaskier can’t find it in himself to care as she drops the box into his hands. Up close, it’s even more clear that this is a genuine artefact, and he feels a sort of hum in his bones as he traces his fingers over the etchings. Not everything in life is about getting a good story out of it, but this… he imagines there must be something significant here, at least.

“Found it on a traveller,” Renfri explains, and normally Jaskier would ask whether it was for a contract or if the person had done something wrong, but his attention is elsewhere, now. “I’ve never found anything of real value, Jask, come on. Tell me I’ve found something.”

Jaskier’s fingers play with the various little slats on the box, shifting them first left and then right and over each other, remembering the puzzle boxes he was fond of as a child. One piece slides into place and there’s a click, the pieces on top folding out like a six-pointed star, revealing the inside. Sitting there, folded up but already springing up at the lack of a lid to hold it down, is a piece of parchment, yellowed with age.

“Renfri,” he starts slowly, fingers trembling slightly as he reaches into the box to draw out the parchment, his friend leaning in next to him as he shakes out the paper to reveal a sort of map, the words written in Elder script. “I think you found something.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part Two of the Mummy AU - and we've met Evie and Jonathan - or Jaskier and Renfri in this case! They both retain their own characteristics, don't worry, just with the scene placing and some dialogue from the movie! 
> 
> I hope everyone enjoyed this chapter, and we'll get to have Jaskier and Geralt meet in the next!


	3. Chapter 3

Jaskier has always known he tends to get a little overexcited when he’s latched onto something, and if the amused glance Renfri shoots his way is any indication, he’s actively vibrating even as he tries to remain calm. Borch is as unfazed as always, peering through a jeweller’s eyepiece at the piece of parchment Jaskier had pulled out of the puzzle box.

“See the rune, there,” he says, pointing all while trying not to hover too much. He’s endured enough teasing, but the engravings on the box are interesting enough that he wagers he’s earned a bit of excitement. It’s been a long time since something this enthralling crossed his path. “It’s an Elven rune, I know it. It looks like the symbol of that old king from before the Great Cleansing.”

“Filavandrel,” Borch muses, staring pensively at the aged paper. “Perhaps.”

Renfri leans in from across the desk. “Two questions,” she begins, a glint in her eye. “Who the hell is Filavandrel? And, more importantly, did he have any riches? Maybe some cool weapons?” She considers it for a moment, then shrugs. “Or both. Both is good.”

“He was given the title of king when the elves retreated into the mountains,” Jaskier explains, bouncing on the souls of his feet and nervously running a finger over the tip of his ear, slightly too tapered to be fully human. It’s not too noticeable, at least, he’s not sure what he would have done if it was. “And, well, I’m not sure if _we_ would consider him rich, but age and historical value would definitely raise the prospects on any items we could find.”

“And weapons?” Renfri doesn’t bother hiding her eagerness.

“Oh, yes, I’m sure he had those,” Jaskier responds immediately, pulling his hand away from his ear and clasping it over the other to ensure it stays put. Already, Renfri’s words and the existence of the puzzle box have sent him into a bout of lyrical inspiration. Whatever secrets the box holds will only serve as extra filling.

His friend smirks, fingers toying with the hilt of her short sword. “Alright, good, that’s good,” she breathes, peering down at the puzzle box. “I like this fellow; I like him very much.”

Jaskier grins at her, ducking his head to try and see more of the parchment as Borch moves it closer to the lamp. He’s already examined it, it’s fairly obvious it’s a map, and if his time at Oxenfurt was good for anything he knows enough to interpret the majority of the runes. “Those symbols weren’t used after the Great Cleansing,” he tells the older man, mouth running away from him even as he knows that the man is already well aware. “It’s five hundred years old, it has to be. And these ones here…” he points at the upper left corner of the map, inhaling to try and calm himself slightly before he speaks. “It’s Dol Blathanna.”

Borch freezes, and Jaskier is about to ask him if he’s alright – as long as he’s known him, the old man has never been sick or poorly once, not in almost two years, but there’s a first time for everything – before the man seems to shake himself. “My dear boy, don’t be ridiculous,” he says, and it’s painfully clear that he’s trying to act normal. “We are scholars, albeit in the loosest sense of the term, but we are not treasure hunters. Dol Blathanna is a myth.”

“Are we talking about _the_ Dol Blathanna?” Renfri cuts in, brows raised in clear interest.

“Yes,” Jaskier replies, looking her straight in the eye and seeing his own excitement reflected there. “The last stronghold of the Elves. Where Filavandrel himself is said to be buried.”

“Right, right, in a big underground chamber,” Renfri continues, face dawning with recognition of the old tales. “Everyone knows the story. The entire acropolis was rigged to sink into the ground. On the king’s command, one simple spell, and the whole place could disappear beneath the flowers.”

Jaskier nods emphatically, his blood practically singing in his veins at the thought of the material he could get, the exposition he could deliver. “Exactly,” he confirms, forcing himself to stop nodding before he makes more of a fool of himself than he already has. “All we know is that the keep mysteriously vanished around the time Cintran troops overran Posada.”

Borch huffs out an annoyed noise, moving the map to get better light. “As the Skelligers would say, it’s all fairy tales and bullshit,” he says succinctly, and Jaskier has to fight not to snort at the rare swear coming from the man’s mouth. Instead, he watches, and throws himself forwards with a cry as the flame from the lamp brushes over the edge of the parchment when Borch moves too close, the smell of burning filling the air even as Renfri snatches the paper and puts out the small fire.

“You burned it!” Jaskier cries out, grabbing the paper back from Renfri as soon as she’s done and inspecting the damage, the left-hand side reduced to a few ashes floating lazily to the floor, all semblance of writing destroyed. “You burned off the part with the lost stronghold!”

“It’s for the best, I’m sure,” Borch intones, and Jaskier shoots him a withering look at the impassiveness in the man’s voice. “Many have wasted their lives in the foolish pursuit of Dol Blathanna, and no one has ever found it. Most have never returned.”

Renfri looks just as distressed as Jaskier, and he takes a slight bit of solace in enjoying the devastating glare on her face as she rounds on the old man with a snarl. “You killed my map.”

“I’m sure it was a fake, anyway.” Borch waves a hand dismissively, before turning to Jaskier. “I’m surprised at you, Mr. Pankratz, to be so foolish.” He leans forward, reaching for the puzzle box, but Jaskier sees the attempt a mile away and snatches it out of reach, holding it to his chest with the remnants of the map protectively. He’s brooked the man’s disappointment once today already, but this time he doesn’t care for any feelings of guilt being shoved his way. Instead, he meets Renfri’s eyes over the desk, and shares the determination he sees there.

* * *

If there’s one thing Renfri can be counted on for always being, it’s the fact that she’s a liar.

“Half-truths,” she’d tried to argue once, when she had claimed to be relieving a passed-out drunk man of a healthy-sized coin purse.

“White lies,” Jaskier had shot back, then proceeded to assist in making away with the man’s money. He wasn’t a thief, by any means (unless all those honey cakes from the kitchens as a child had counted), but, well, this particular man had a bad reputation and certainly hadn’t come by his wealth through legal means. After all, if you steal from a crook, it’s not truly stealing, is it? More… liberating.

Right now, though, being led into the depths of the Novigrad prison, he wishes he’d never given her such a significant amount of leniency.

It’s bad enough that she hadn’t informed them of their destination, instead dragging him along to find the man she’d apparently gotten the puzzle box off of. He should never have been gullible enough to believe her, but in the excitement, it had slipped his mind. Now, though, he regrets not pushing her for more answers – his silk doublet and matching trousers are not fit for this level of establishment. Already, there are several spots along his calves that he’s sure are never going to wash out. Even the warden had taken one look at him and scoffed when they’d arrived.

“You said you got it from a traveller,” he hisses as they walk through the courtyard, groups of inmates opening gawking at them as they pass. All of a sudden Jaskier is grateful for Novigrad’s status as a free city, which – though regulated – is just on the right side of corrupt to allow Renfri to keep her weapons upon entrance.

“He is a traveller,” she bites back, and although she looks calm, her fingers rest on the hilt of her sword. “He _is_ ,” she repeats at his dubious look, then hesitates. “Of a sort.”

Jaskier glares at her. “You lied to me!”

“I lie to everybody,” Renfri says easily, brushing off his sputters of indignation. “What makes you so special?”

“I’m your friend,” Jaskier protests weakly, knowing it will have little impact. As expected, Renfri just shrugs and shoots him a grin, muttering something about him being gullible that he tactfully decides to ignore. Right now, he’s still reeling from the shock of learning who exactly they’re here to visit. “I still can’t believe you stole it from a Witcher,” he mumbles, crossing his arms in a futile effort to show off his displeasure. “How did you even manage to get it off of him?” A thought crosses his mind and he blanches, stopping and grabbing Renfri’s arm. “Oh _gods_ , you didn’t sleep with him, did you?”

She snorts. “Nah, I have enough self-preservation instincts not to do that. Nicked it from his saddlebags while he was on some hunt or other just across the channel – though, let me tell you, his horse is one nasty piece of work.” She shakes her head and continues walking, dragging Jaskier along with her. “Besides, I thought sleeping with dangerous men was _your_ thing. I remember you gushing for a week that time that scarred Witcher passed through. You have a kink for them, or something?”

Jaskier fights down a blush, meeting her gaze unashamedly. “No, I just find them interesting,” he challenges, not looking away. “And can you blame me? If they’re all blessed with such good looks I’ll have a hard time controlling myself.”

“You already do,” Renfri teases, but is stopped before she can say more by the warden halting in front of one of the cells. 

Inside, it’s empty – extending into the yard with iron bars set into a low stone wall, but at the back Jaskier can see a doorway to the interior chamber, the metal door closed tightly. If he strains his ears, he can pick up the slightest bit of commotion from inside, and turns to the warden expectantly.

“What is he in prison for?” he asks, genuinely curious. He knows that Witchers aren’t the most well-regarded people on the Continent, but in Novigrad there’s at least some semblance of tolerance for them. He’s not heard anything about there being an incident, either – it would have spread through every tavern by now – so he’s not sure what has happened. He also desperately wants to find out.

“I did not know,” the warden answers, banging on one of the bars to let the sound reverberate to the interior cell. “So, when I heard you were coming, I asked him that myself.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes at the attempt at a mysterious air. “And what did he say?”

The warden glances at him. “He said he was just looking for some peace and quiet.”

There’s a louder noise and then the interior cell door bursts open. Jaskier catches a glimpse of gold and a flash of white before his gaze settles on the guards – three of them, which seems a bit like overkill – until he looks at the man they’re dragging forward and his throat goes dry, eyes widening in shock when he’s pushed to his knees in front of the bars. White hair is flicked over a shoulder and golden eyes blink hazily for a few seconds before focusing, head tilting up to exhibit a face with a lightly stubbled jaw that could cut glass. Jaskier feels his heart jump into his throat at the dark look the Witcher is sporting, involuntarily letting out a noise that would charitably be considered a whine.

The Witcher glances over, looking Jaskier up and down and letting out a low hum of disapproval. “Fucking nobles.”

Well, scratch any thoughts he had housed about good looks. Jaskier puffs up indignantly. “ _Excuse_ you?” 

“He’s a bard, actually,” Renfri pipes up, and she sounds far too delighted with the situation.

Another hum sounds as the Witcher looks her over. “Even worse.”

“I’ll be back in a moment,” the warden says from a few feet behind them, and Jaskier startles a little at the words, having forgot the man was there, glancing back as he shuffles away towards a group of other inmates in the yard.

From behind the bars, the Witcher grunts derisively, only for one of the guards to club him across the head, sending the Witcher’s forwards to bounce off the cold iron. He doesn’t show any signs of pain, simply looking over his shoulder and levelling the guard with an unamused stare, lifting his hands to wrap around two of the bars.

It’s this display of nonchalance that has Jaskier stepping closer, pushing past Renfri as she tries to shove him back. “We, uh,” he starts out inelegantly, watching as the Witcher turns his head back around to face them. “We found your… puzzle box, and we’ve come to ask you about it.”

The Witcher regards him for a moment. “No.”

Jaskier blinks. “No?”

“No,” the Witcher repeats, his face cool and unimpressed. “You came to ask me about Dol Blathanna.”

Renfri pushes forward to stand next to him, and Jaskier catches her fingers tightening on the hilt of her sword as he glances around to see if anyone had overheard. Now that the warden has moved away, the guards inside the cell thankfully don’t seem too interested in their conversation.

Jaskier stares at the Witcher for a minute, the box’s weight heavy in his pocket. “How do you know the box pertains to Dol Blathanna?” he presses, leaning down just slightly so he can see the man more clearly.

“Because that’s where I found it,” the Witcher says, as if it’s an ordinary place instead of a long-lost elven stronghold. “I was there.”

“And how do we know you’re not spewing the same bullshit the rest of your kind do?” Renfri demands, and Jaskier notes the way the Witcher’s mouth tightens, just for a fraction of a second, and reaches out to inconspicuously slap Renfri’s arm in warning. He doesn’t trust the Witcher either – no matter what those golden eyes seem to be telling his body – but neither does he want to scare him away for good.

The Witcher looks her up and down again, and then his nostrils flare and eyes widen, before swiftly delivering a punch that’s no less powerful for the shortened range impeded by the cuffs. “You touched Roach,” he says by way of explanation when Renfri reels back, eyes sparking as she wraps one hand around her midsection where the blow had landed, the other already starting to unsheathe her sword.

One of the guards clubs the Witcher on the head again, and Jaskier reaches out to stop Renfri from drawing her blade further, shaking his head with his best imploring expression. There’s a tense pause where he stares back, breathing slightly harder than normal, before she rolls her eyes and lets go of her sword, sliding it fully back into her sheath. Jaskier spares a moment to take a breath and then turns back to the cell.

“You were actually at Dol Blathanna?” he asks, and he can hear the slight doubt in his voice even though it’s mostly overlaid by wonder. 

“I just punched your friend,” the Witcher points out, as if he’s confused by the change in topic.

Jaskier waves a hand dismissively. “Oh, she’s had far worse. Besides, I’d _thank_ you if you punched me. I mean, have you seen yourse-”

“Jask,” Renfri interjects, and Jaskier shuts his mouth with a snap, feeling the blood rise to his face at the amused expression the Witcher has.

“I was there,” he confirms finally, white hair falling into his face.

Jaskier narrows his eyes. He’s not fully in agreement with Renfri when it comes to Witchers, but he knows better than to discount the rumours entirely. Just because the scarred Witcher had turned out to be nice (and a surprisingly good lay) doesn’t mean that this one will be the same. “You swear?” he presses, because if there’s one thing he’s been told countless times he needs more of, it’s caution.

The corner of the Witcher’s mouth quirks up, just a tiny bit. “Every damn day.”

Jaskier can’t help the grin that spreads over his face at that. “Ha, ha. Very funny. I mean – ”

“I know what you mean,” the Witcher interjects. “I was there. Filavandrel’s stronghold, the Valley of Flowers.” 

“What did you find?” Jaskier pushes, because he _needs_ to know, he needs to have the best fucking material for a song ever, needs to shoe it in that bastard Valdo Marx’ face and watch him choke on it. “What was there to see?”

The Witcher scowls. “I found dirt and death.”

Footsteps ring out just behind them, and Jaskier flaps a hand at Renfri to tell her to distract the approaching warden as he leans down further, closer to the bars. “Could you tell me how to get there?” he asks, lowering his voice. “The exact location?”

“You want to know?” the Witcher raises an eyebrow.

Jaskier nods, leaning in closer, until his face is right up against the bars, and oh no – those eyes are even better from this short distance, a warm honey colour with flecks of amber and –

He yelps as hands grab his shoulders, yanking him forwards until his mouth is right up against the Witcher’s in a poor imitation of a kiss.

“Then get me the hell out of here,” he growls, sending a shudder down Jaskier’s spine as his lips move against the sensitive skin of his own, stunned into stillness until the guards grab the Witcher and drag him back towards the interior cell, a hand grasping his collar and yanking him back from the bars simultaneously. 

There are a few seconds where his sense wavers, shocked into complacency, until Renfri comes into view as she looks him over, examining his face for any apparent damage. The feeling of her hand brushing against his lips as she traces the tingling flesh to check for wounds is enough to snap him out of his daze and he pushes away from her hands, spinning to face the warden. 

“Where are they taking him?” he demands, resisting the urge to lift his hand to his mouth.

The warden shrugs. “To be hanged,” he answers simply, looking delighted at the prospect. “Apparently, he didn’t find his peace and quiet after all.”

* * *

Jaskier barely remembers the mad dash after the warden, across the courtyard and through the groups of inmates with Renfri shouting obscenities behind him as she follows. There’s a platform in the centre of the yard, he knows, and up on the balcony he catches a better view of the crude gallows, his heart sinking as he rushes to the warden’s side. 

“No women are allowed at executions,” the man barks out, glancing over to where Renfri has entered the portico, dozens of inmates staring hungrily at her.

She looks back at him calmly, her smile only slightly unhinged as she pats the sword at her side. “I go wherever the fuck I want.”

Luckily, the warden seems to have at least some vague bit of sense, because he doesn’t protest her presence any further. Instead, he shrugs and looks out over the banister of the balcony, watching as the Witcher is brought forward and shoved up the stairs onto the gallows. Jaskier locks eyes with him, taking note of the grim determination there, and makes up his mind.

“I will give you fifty crowns to spare his life,” he tells the warden, sitting down next to him and not even bothering to add on any sort of sarcastic comment that could foil his plan.

The warden scoffs. “I would _pay_ fifty crowns just to watch the mutant scum hang.”

“A hundred crowns,” Jaskier bargains, and he swears he can see the Witcher’s eyebrows raise expectantly. He doesn’t know the full range of Witcher hearing, but obviously it must be much better than the average man’s.

“Proceed,” the warden orders.

“Three hundred crowns,” Jaskier offers, voice edging on desperate, and he can see Renfri watching him in surprise out of the corner of his eye. It’s a lot of coin, far too much to save the life of a man he’d never met before today and who will likely have forgotten him in a week, but Jaskier is nothing if not optimistic and he _knows_ that the songs he could write would be worth every copper spent. And, if he can entice the Witcher into his bed, then it only adds to the experience. Right now, though, said Witcher is having a noose fitted around his neck and the chances for lyrical inspiration and a grand adventure are slipping through his fingers.

The warden turns, intrigued by the offer. “And what else?” he asks, voice turning smarmy. “I’m a very lonely man, you know. Perhaps… something to sweeten the deal?” His hand lands on Jaskier’s upper thigh.

He can hear Renfri step forward, but he can fight his own battles, thank you very much. He shoves the hand away, glancing down at the marks left behind by greasy fingers, and then stares defiantly at the warden until the man huffs and turns back to the yard, gesturing at the hangman.

The executioner pulls the lever, and the trapdoor drops.

“ _No!_ ” 

Jaskier is on his feet in a flash, staring down in horror at the scene in front of him. He’s never liked seeing dead bodies, nor any sort of killing – which is ironic, considering how much time he spends around Renfri, and Téa and Véa, if he’s being honest – and to have his hopes swept from under him makes it even worse. As he stares down, though, it’s with a breath of relief that he sees the Witcher’s eyes are still open, legs kicking as the noose slowly suffocates him. There’s still a chance.

“His neck did not break!” the warden cries, and he sounds more upset by this turn of events. The other inmates seem to notice this at the same time, and there’s a cry that starts up, echoed by others screaming and shouting in anger, rushing at their guards to try and make it to the gallows. Jaskier remembers being in the town square as a boy in Lettenhove, watching a man have his legs tugged on whilst at the end of a noose, with a start realises that it will likely happen here if the inmates get past the guards.

Regretting what he’s about to do, he leans forward. “He knows the location of Dol Blathanna.”

The warden spins around immediately, eyes narrowed. “You lie,” he accuses, and Jaskier gasps.

“I would _never_ ,” he denies, doing his best to sound insulted, and pointedly ignoring Renfri’s sudden cough from behind him.

At the end of the rope, the Witcher looks to be choking, a harsh gagging sound reaching their ears. The warden spares him a glance, then turns back to look at Jaskier disbelievingly. “Are you telling me that this filthy mutant knows where to find the Valley of Flowers?”

“Yes,” Jaskier confirms, hands fisted in the silk of his trousers as he does his best to maintain eye contact and not look towards the gallows. “And if you cut him down, we will give you ten percent.” He winces at the kick Renfri levels at his shin.

The warden stares at him. “Fifty percent.”

“Twenty,” he counters.

“Forty.”

Jaskier hesitates, biting his lip, then risks a look into the yard where the Witcher’s face is slowly turning purple. “Twenty-five percent, and not a crown more,” he offers, ignoring Renfri’s sigh of exasperation as he stares the warden down.

The man watches him for a second, then grins, turning to face the yard. “Cut him down!” he orders, and Jaskier slumps back into his chair from the tension leaving his body, watching over the edge of the balcony as one of the guards cuts the rope and the Witcher goes crashing to the ground, to the dismay of the other inmates who grumble below their breath even as they’re pushed back towards their cells.

Satisfied, Jaskier inhales slowly before standing up, looking down into the courtyard as the Witcher sits up – recovering far too quickly for an ordinary man, and _oh_ , isn’t that a thought – then lifts his head to look towards the balcony. Grinning as cheekily as he can, Jaskier waves down at him, relishing the annoyed frown that appears on his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They have met!!! Does it still count as a slow burn if they practically kiss in chapter 2?

**Author's Note:**

> So... I had another late night sugar-fueled brainstorm... and it culminated in this: The Mummy (1999) but Witcher style!!! For anyone reading _The Path Ahead_ , that will still be updating, and this work will be updated once a week - the day to be determined. At any rate, I hope you enjoyed this little prologue, and hopefully, the rest will be fun as well!


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